Monday, June 20:
As a rule, people who are sick should do the world a favor and stay home until they’re not hacking their lungs up. And, under normal circumstances, I’d be home in bed, nursing my cold/flu/whatever. With everyone mad at me, I’ve subjected myself to all manner of over-the-counter remedies in hopes of masking my most hideous symptoms.
Unfortunately, I didn’t buy anything for my stomach, which started turning cartwheels when I saw my archrival temp Priss sitting in the conference room where we have to wait to be told what we’ll be doing this week. The only empty seat is a folding chair right behind her fried, highlighted hair.
“I guess they just put out a blanket call and are taking everybody. They must be desperate,” Priss says with a quick glance over her shoulder in my direction.
My brain is muddled with an over-the-counter chemical cocktail so by the time I come up with a retort (“It sure does look that way, bitch.”), the office manager, Maureen, walks into the room. I have to swallow my outrage along with a glop of snot from my still runny nose.
Tuesday, June 21:
I’ve spent the last few days apologizing to people. First to Jared for embarrassing him at his ex-girlfriend’s engagement party. Then to his ex-girlfriend for a DayQuil-fruity alcoholic drink induced flirt fest aimed at her fiancé. (No way in hell am I apologizing for not getting back to her fiancé about the supposed dinner date I agreed to. If he’s dumb enough to complain about that to her, she should thank me for cluing her in to what a tool he is.)
And then there was my sorry to Maya for encouraging her to drown her Armie sorrows in a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. Now she claims her married boyfriend will never take her back because she’s gained a whole pound. To prove I’m really sorry, I promised to run the Santa Monica steps with her after work even though I’m not over my cold/flu.
All this sorry saying has made it almost like a bad habit, which is why my sorry of this morning when I bumped into Priss as we passed each other in the copy room was totally not sincere. It was a reflex! If anything, she was at fault. I was going in and she was going out and everyone knows that people going in have priority. She should have stepped aside, but she didn’t and I ended up saying “Sorry!” before I realized it was her.
I’m done apologizing. From this moment on, everyone is just going to have to suck it. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.
Wednesday, June 22:
Jared is ignoring my calls, texts and emails, and short of paying for a skywriting message, I’ve run out of ideas on how to let him know that I’m beyond sorry about everything that’s horrible in the universe (least of which is my engagement party faux pas in front of his super cool friends). But desperate times call for desperate measures so I’m buying him that damn porkpie hat I mocked him out of getting. I’ll even let him pork me while he’s wearing it. If that doesn’t prove I’m sorry, nothing will.
Thursday, June 23:
I’m not a fan of trash talking my own gender, but the sad truth is that when you get a whole lot of women and girls together weird things happen. Menstrual cycles become synchronized and a seven floor elevator ride turns into The Lord of the Flies, abridged, but with chicks.
“Maureen?” I approach the office manager tentatively. She runs hot and cold, literally. She’s going through menopause, but is so devoid of body fat, she gets the shivers if there’s too much ice in her Diet Coke. “I’m done with the data entry project.”
“Already?” She fans herself with a sheaf of papers as a hot flash starts to creep up on her. “That was supposed to last until the end of the week. You must a very fast typist.”
“Well, yeah, typing sort of comes naturally to me. So I can work on something else now. Maybe on that newsletter project you mentioned this morning. After all, I’m a fast typist.”
Maureen plays favorites and I’m not one of them. Priss, of course, is. She’s been floating around, weaving between cubicles with a clipboard making sure everyone else is doing what they’re supposed to. And I’ve found out she’s getting paid $2 more an hour than me to do it.
“Uh….” Maureen fans herself, her face growing another shade of red. Off comes her cardigan.
“I minored in creative writing and was an editor for the annual student publication.” I say this fast, hoping I can get her okay before she yanks off her blouse. “We won a few awards.”
“Well….” This is as far as Maureen gets before Priss rushes in with a glass of Diet Coke with just enough ice in it. She gulps it down, her eyes closed in rapture. “Thank you, Priss. You saved my life.”
“Don’t mention it, Maureen.” Priss gives me a smug smile.
“Should I get started on the newsletter?” I ask—even though I know I’ve already lost any chance of climbing out of the data entry hole I’ve dug for myself.
“Oh, that?” Priss says in a mock innocent voice. “I’ve been working on it. I had no idea you were interested in anything besides data entry, Brenda, since you’re so good at it. This is totally my fault, Maureen.”
“It’s fine, Priss.” Maureen pats Priss’s hand and takes another gulp of soda before she gets around to my fate. “Brenda, why don’t you just focus on the data entry for now? We can find you something else for tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m not sure, Maureen—” Priss starts.
“Fine. Data entry. I’m on it. Thanks.” I stomp back to my desk, cursing myself for letting myself be bested by bitchy Priss and a can of cold Diet Coke.
Friday, June 24:
Jared sent me a picture of him and some chick with fake boobs to go along with her fake blond hair. Worse, he was wearing that damn porkpie hat I gave him as a peace offering. I knew he was still mad at me when we met on Wednesday, but I never thought he’d stoop to this. I’m not sure if I should be hurt that another girl was all over him or offended that he stooped to such a pathetic cliché to get back at me. A fake blond with fake boobs at a bar? He went to Harvard—I expected at least a smidgen of originality.
Saturday, June 25:
Canceled my haircut. I’m not in the mood to chat. It’s an unavoidable compulsion to say something, anything and everything while sitting in a stylist’s chair. Maya is off at some Palm Springs resort with Armie having gross sex in an air-conditioned hotel room. I’m ignoring my cell phone with its many messages from Jared and immersing myself in the sordid but tidy world of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.
Sunday, June 26:
I’ve known Maya long enough to realize she doesn’t like to be in anyone’s shadow. Even when it comes to whose relationship can blow up in the most spectacular fashion, hers has to involve a little extra drama.
Jared groping some chick in a bar while wearing the hat I got him? Boohoo. Armie’s wife banging down the door of their hotel suite and threatening to kill Maya? That wins, hands down.
It’s sometime before dawn and my gas station coffee buzz that sustained me during the drive to Palm Springs has worn off. I’m tired, and since Maya doesn’t have to check out until 11, I don’t see the harm in me taking a little nap, followed by a shower and then wandering over to see what the breakfast buffet looks like.
“Are you insane?” Maya is a wreck. She’s wearing a hotel robe over her skimpy (and tacky) lace teddy and panty set. Her eye makeup is smeared and her nose is red from crying. “She said she’d kill me.”
“Which is sort of understandable. I mean she did find you in a hotel room under her name and under her husband.” I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner. “I mean, yeah, it’s awful that she went all Jerry Springer on you, but what’d you expect?”
“He didn’t even try to defend me.” Maya starts crying again. I had already heard the story on the drive here and, like I said, I’m really tired. There’s no way I’m going to be able to drive back to L.A. if I don’t get some rest. “He just stood there! While she called me horrible, awful names! And then he left with her!”
I pat Maya on the shoulder. The robe she’s wearing is lux
uriously plush. “But the room has been paid for, right?”
Monday, June 27:
Maya expected me to stay home with her today and wallow in her relationship grief. She’s forgotten I have my own relationship issues which I’ve decided to ignore by spending the day in some anonymous cubicle staring at a smudgy computer monitor while endless hours of brain numbing data entry take the pain away. She’s mad at me, but I can live with that.
Of course, karma paid me back when Jared showed up at work with a bouquet and a face full of sorry. I had no choice but to accept the flowers, his tearful hug and I shoved my tongue in his mouth before he could declare his love for me in front of the gossipy receptionist. I would have agreed to have his baby if it would have gotten him out of there faster.
Tuesday, June 28:
This morning Priss came over to my desk, all smiles and sunshine. She complimented me on my shoes and my purse, and then asked about my “cute boyfriend.”
I mumbled something and she went away only to come back an hour later to see if I wanted to go to Starbucks with her. I said no, of course. I don’t know what game Priss is playing, but I’m positive I’ll wind up the loser.
Wednesday, June 29:
I’ve finally figured out to ask Maureen for work before she has her first hit of caffeine of the day. She gave me the newsletter project. Better yet, she told me Priss had sort of made a mess of it. I interrupt my happiness to return Summer’s call.
“Hey, Summer, I’m good to come back for next week.” I print out a copy of the newsletter as evidence to prove how much Priss sucks.
“Sorry, Brenda, but they already booked everyone they need.”
“Oh.” It’s a genuine, surprised “oh.” With everything else going on, I sort of thought that at least my job would be there for me.
“Call me tomorrow. I’m sure something good will come in.” She hangs up and I have to take a few deep breaths before I can reach down to shove my Blackberry in my purse.
There’s a stabby feeling in my stomach. Just like the one I got when I was in the third grade and was the only girl in class not invited to Stephanie Novato’s princess-themed birthday party.
Thursday, June 30:
I’ve always been a very tidy person. Not crazy organized, but I like to keep things where they belong. My work life stays at work, my private life stays (relatively) private and I’ve always been careful not to mix the two.
Having Jared show up at work with a bunch of flowers on Monday—his face one big puddle of “I’m sorry”—was my worst nightmare come true. Because he couldn’t control his sentimentality, now everyone knows that I have a boyfriend and that that boyfriend did something he is sorry for.
My relationship woes have unleashed something even more twisted and evil in Priss. She’s been hovering over me, asking me how I’m doing, if I need to take a break, do I need someone to talk to. She’s the relationship grim reaper, which is a role Maya usually fills in my life.
Of course, my supposed best friend is too deep in her own relationship misery to pay any attention to anyone but herself. She could be sitting in a refugee camp right smack in the middle of Darfur and she’d still be crying over Armie choosing his wife over her.
So as of now, I don’t know what’s going to happen with Jared, how long Maya will hold out before she starts prowling for a money bags replacement or if Priss will stab me to death with a pair of office scissors.
Nothing about any of this is the least bit tidy.
Friday, July 1:
I’ve lied to Jared and told him I’ll be at my grandma’s this weekend. She’s going on her monthly Vegas jaunt with a rowdy group from her active seniors’ retirement community. And because I’m such a terrible liar, I’m going to go stay there so it’s only half a lie. I invited Maya, but she said she’d rather sleep in an alley. She’ll be ringing my grandma’s doorbell by noon tomorrow.
Not Quite Right
July 2 to July 31
Saturday, July 2:
I like geezers. My parents were pretty up there in years when I came around so I’m used to persons of advanced years. Mom thought she was entering early menopause, but the situation with her lady parts was exactly the opposite. So, yeah, by the time I graduated from high school my parents looked like my grandparents and I’ve been listening to their old people complaints for years now.
This is why spending the next couple of days at my grandma’s retirement condo complex doesn’t faze me. Old people are funny and smart, and I can walk a lot faster than the annoying ones so they’re easy to avoid. Aside from the periodic “code blue” announcements over the speaker system, it’s pretty nice here.
Sunday, July 3:
Maya showed up last night—she couldn’t face another night alone in my apartment. She’s paranoid that Armie’s wife is going to break in and machete her to pieces. I guess she assumed his wife would go for me first, giving her a chance to escape. Whatever you want to say about Maya, she’s not dumb and she always plans ahead. I’ve caught her up on all the condo gossip and she’s looking a little more like her old self-centered self.
It’s barely noon and we’ve already had breakfast and lunch, and dinner is only a few hours away. I’ve signed us up for a bingo tournament to keep us both busy. I’m hoping to win big to make up for my lack of a temp assignment for the coming week.
Monday, July 4:
Maya and I have talked each other into going over to a friend’s for burnt wieners, warm beer and illegal fireworks. Even with no word from Armie, Maya must be feeling better—she’s combed her hair and is wearing a new blouse from Forever 21 that’s an Anthropologie knock-off. Not going to ruin things by pointing out that it’s my blouse and she didn’t ask if she could borrow it. It was only $12.99 so I’d rather eat the cost then deal with the grief she’d give me for pointing out she’s a blouse stealer.
Tuesday, July 5:
I’m sitting in my car still parked in the carport with nowhere to go. I hold up my phone to the heavens and pray that Summer comes through with an assignment, but I’ve been on hold for 10 minutes and I know that’s not good. I hunker down in the seat so Ivan doesn’t see me. He’s happy, whistling under his breath and carrying a coiled water hose over his shoulder.
“Brenda?” Summer pops her gum. “You still there?”
“Yeah. Yes. Anything?” I know I sound desperate, but I really need her to come through for me.
“Sorry. I even tried our Valley branch. Things are really slow right now.” Another pop of gum. “Call me next week.”
That’s it. I’m screwed until next week. I hang up and start picking the polish off my nails. My phone rings and I answer it without bothering to check who’s calling.
“What the hell is going on?” Cal. I sit up straight, my heart kicking up a notch or two. “And don’t tell me you’re working because if you were, you wouldn’t have answered your phone.”
Cal is taking what he calls a “temp sabbatical” for the rest of the summer. Supposedly, he’s recording songs and playing gigs with his band. What he mostly seems to be doing is calling me up at all hours to play random bits of songs in my ear and then trying to talk me into meeting him at some bar or another.
“What are you doing up so early?” It’s not even close to 9, but it’s already scorching hot. Maya’s going to call me any second now bitching about the lack of air conditioning in my apartment.
“Up? I haven’t even been to bed yet. I wanted you to hear something. Ready?” Without waiting for me to respond, he blares one of his songs in my ear. “So? Brilliant, right?”
“Sure. I like it.” It sounds like all his other songs. Kind of techno with some funk mixed in and lyrics that don’t make much sense, but sound good. “I thought you guys found a singer.”
“You should come by. We can hang out.” What Cal means by hanging out is we talk, laugh, hold hands and make out until I’m overcome by guilt and take off.
“Sorry. Can’t. My roommate just broke up with her bo
yfriend and I promised to braid her hair and wipe away her tears.”
“Sounds kinky. Maybe I’ll come over and watch.” Cal has been dropping hints that he wants to meet my friends, but so far I’ve brushed him off.
I watch as Maya trudges toward me, wrapped in a blanket.
“I gotta go. Call you later.” I snap my phone shut and open the passenger door for her.
“Hey. You want me to drive you to McDonald’s to get breakfast?” This always cheers her up, but from the slump of her shoulders I can tell it’s not going to work this time. Nothing. She stares blankly at the dashboard. “Maybe we can go somewhere. Vegas?”
I hate Vegas and she knows it. For me that city is hell on earth. The heat, the people, the wasting of money. Ugh.
“What’s his name?” She has her chin tucked into her chest, but I heard her clearly enough.
“Uh…Cal.” That I’ve been able to keep him a secret from her this long is something of an accomplishment. Not one I’m necessarily proud of, but it still wasn’t easy to do. “I met him on a temp assignment.”
“What about Jared?” She looks at me. Without mascara, her lashes are very blond and her eyes have a pinkish look to them. “Are you guys really broken up?”
I put my hands on the wheel and grip it. Up until now I’ve had the luxury of not asking myself that question. It’s not a big surprise that I don’t have an answer. I shrug.
Ivan comes back carrying the same hose over his shoulder. He stops short when he sees us, startled, before a smile overtakes his face. I wave him over. “We’re going to get breakfast at McDonald’s. You want to come along?”
“Sure,” he climbs into the backseat.
I carefully back out of the carport, aware that my passengers are both relying on me to get them safely there and back again.
The Brenda Diaries Page 7
